As this was Mr. Mason's first meeting with the widow since the Sunday
morning when the village was attacked, his words and manner showed that
he dreaded any allusion to his own loss. The widow saw and understood
this; but she had consolation for him as well as for others, and would
not allow him to have his way.

"But what of Alice?" she said, earnestly. "You do not mention her. Henry
has told me all. Have you nothing to say about yourself--about Alice?"

"Oh! what can I say?" cried the pastor, clasping his hands, while a deep
sob almost choked him.

"Can you not say that she is in the hands of God--of a loving _Father_?"
said Mrs. Stuart, tenderly.

"Yes, I can say that--I _have_ said that; but--but--"

"I know what you would say," interrupted the widow; "you would tell me
that she is in the hands of pirates,--ruthless villains who fear
neither God nor man, and that, unless a miracle is wrought in her
behalf, nothing can save her--"

"Oh! spare me, Mary; why do you harrow my broken heart with such a
picture?" cried Mr. Mason, rising and pacing the room with quick,
unsteady steps, while with both hands on his head he seemed to attempt
to crush down the thoughts that burned up his brain.

"I speak thus," said the widow, with an earnestness of tone and manner
that almost startled her hearers, "because I wish to comfort you. Alice,
you tell me, is on board the Foam--"

"On board the _pirate schooner_!" cried Henry, almost fiercely; for the
youth, although as much distressed as Mr. Mason, was not so resigned as
he, and his spirit chafed at the thought of having been deceived so
terribly by the pirate.

"She is on board the Foam," repeated the widow, in a tone so stern that
her hearers looked at her in surprise, "and is therefore in the hands of
Gascoyne, who will not injure a hair of her head. I tell you, Mr. Mason,
that she is _perfectly safe_ in the hands of Gascoyne."

"Of the pirate Durward!" said Henry, in a deep, angry voice.

"What ground have you for saying so?" asked the widow, quickly. "You
only know him as Gascoyne the sandal-wood trader,--the captain of the
Foam. He has been suspected, it is true; but suspicion is not proof. His
schooner has been fired into by a war-vessel; he has returned the fire:
any passionate man might be tempted to do that. His men have carried off
some of our dear ones. That was _their_ doing, not his. He knew nothing
of it."

"Mother, mother," cried Henry, entreatingly, "don't stand up in that way
for a pirate; I can't bear to hear it. Did he not himself describe the
pirate schooner's appearance in this room, and when he was attacked by
the Talisman did he not show out in his true colors, thereby proving
that he is Durward the pirate?"

The widow's face grew pale and her voice trembled as she replied, like
one who sought to convince herself rather than her hearer, "That is not
_positive_ proof, Henry, Gascoyne may have had some good reason for
deceiving you all in this way. His description of the pirate may have
been a false one. We cannot tell. You know he was anxious to prevent
Captain Montague from impressing his men."

"And would proclaiming himself a pirate be a good way of accomplishing
that end, mother?"

"Mary," said Mr. Mason, solemnly, as he seated himself at the table and
looked earnestly in the widow's face, "your knowledge of this man and
your manner of speaking about him surprise me. I have long thought that
you were not acting wisely in permitting Gascoyne to be so intimate;
for, whatever he may in reality be, he is a suspicious character, to say
the best of him; and although _I_ know that you think you are right in
encouraging his visits, other people do not know that; they may judge
you harshly. I do not wish to pry into secrets; but you have sought to
comfort me by bidding me have perfect confidence in this man? I _must_
ask what knowledge you have of him. How far are you aware of his
character and employment? How do you know that he is so trustworthy?"

An expression of deep grief rested on the widow's countenance as she
replied, in a sad voice;

"I _know_ that you may trust Gascoyne with your child. He is my oldest
friend. I have known him since we were children. He saved my father's
life long, long ago, and helped to support my mother in her last years.
Would you have me to forget all this because men say that he is a
pirate?"

"Why, mother," cried Henry, "if you know so much about him you _must_
know that, whatever he was in time past, he is the pirate Durward now."

"I do _not_ know that he is the pirate Durward!" said the widow, in a
voice and with a look so decided that Henry was silenced and sorely
perplexed; yet much relieved, for he knew that his mother would rather
die than tell a deliberate falsehood.

The missionary was also comforted; for although his judgment told him
that the grounds of hope thus held out to him were very insufficient, he
was impressed by the thoroughly confident tone of the widow, and felt
relieved in spite of himself.

Soon after this conversation was concluded, the household retired to
rest.

Next morning Henry was awakened out of a deep sleep by the sound of
subdued voices in the room underneath his own. At first he paid no
attention to these, supposing that, as it was broad daylight, some of
their native servants were moving about. But presently the sound of his
mother's voice induced him to listen more attentively. Then a voice
replied, so low that he could with difficulty hear it at all. Its
strength increased, however, and at last it broke forth in deep bass
tones.

Henry sprang up and threw on his clothes. As he was thus engaged the
front door of the opened, and the speakers went out. A few seconds
sufficed for the youth to finish dressing him; then, seizing a pistol,
he hurried out of the house. Looking quickly round, he just caught sight
of the skirts of a woman's dress as they disappeared through the doorway
of a hut which had been formerly inhabited by a poor native, who had
subsisted on the widow's bounty until he died. The door was shut
immediately after.

Going swiftly but cautiously round by a back way, Henry approached the
hut. Strange and conflicting feelings filled his breast. A blush of deep
shame and self-abhorrence mantled on his cheek when it flashed across
him that he was about to play the spy on his own mother. But there was
no mistaking Gascoyne's voice.

How the supposed pirate had got there, and wherefore he was there, were
matters that he did not think of or care about at that moment. There he
was; so the young man resolved to secure him and hand him over to
justice.

Henry was too honorable to listen secretly to a conversation, whatever
it might be, that was not intended for his ears. He resolved merely to
peep in at one of the many chinks in the log but for one moment, to
satisfy himself that Gascoyne really was there, and to observe his
position. But as the latter now thought himself beyond the hearing of
any one, he spoke in unguarded tones, and Henry heard a few words in
spite of himself.

Looking through a chink in the wall at the end of the hut, he beheld the
stalwart form of the sandal-wood trader standing on the hearth of the
hut, which was almost unfurnished,--a stool, a bench, an old chest, a
table, and a chair being all that it contained. His mother was seated
at the table, with her hands clasped before her, looking up at her
companion.

"Oh! why run so great a risk as this?" said she earnestly.

"I was born to run risks, I believe," replied Gascoyne, in a sad, low
voice. "It matters not. My being on the island is the result of Manton's
villainy; my being here is for poor Henry's sake and your own, as well
as for the sake of Alice the missionary's child. You have been upright,
Mary, and kind, and true as steel ever since I knew you. But for that I
should have been lost long ago--"

Henry heard no more. These words did indeed whet his curiosity to the
utmost; but the shame of acting the part of an "eavesdropper" was so
great that, by a strong effort of will, he drew back, and pondered for a
moment what he ought to do. The unexpected tone and tenor of Gascoyne's
remark had softened him slightly; but, recalling the undoubted proofs
that he had had of his really being a pirate, he soon steeled his heart
against him. He argued that the mere fact of a man giving his mother
credit for a character which everybody knew she possessed, was not
sufficient to clear him of the suspicions which he had raised against
himself. Besides, it was impertinence in any man to tell his mother his
opinion of her to her face. And to call him "poor Henry," forsooth! This
was not to be endured!

Having thus wrought himself up to a sufficient degree of indignation,
the young man went straight to the door, making considerable noise in
order to prepare those within for his advent. He had expected to find it
locked. In this he was mistaken. It yielded to a push.

Throwing it wide open, Henry strode into the middle of the apartment,
and, pointing the pistol at Gascoyne's breast, exclaimed:

"Pirate Durward, I arrest you in the king's name!"

At the first sound of her son's approach, Mrs. Stuart bent forward over
the table with a groan, and buried her face in her hands.

Gascoyne received Henry's speech at first with a frown, and then with a
smile.

"You have taken a strange time and way to jest, Henry," said he,
crossing his arms on his broad chest and gazing boldly into the youth's
face.

"You will not throw me off my guard thus," said Henry, sternly. "You are
my prisoner. I know you to be a pirate. At any rate you will have to
prove yourself to be an honest man before you quit this hut a free man.
Mother, leave this place, that I may lock the door upon him."